Lady, Undeniable

(Whitechapel, 1889)

Whitechapel Road,

The heart of the East End

Weeps like a woman—resurrected

Trickles blood like a woman—

Like Onethousand-two-hundred

Molls and Sibyls,

Who could choose from one

Of Sixty-two brothels

And palm-read the dirt on their hands

From birth.

Where Bangladeshis in their

East London Mosque

Spray curry-powder dust,

Flavoring the thin throats

The open necks

—Jack's specialty—

As he Rips off her ear, and brags about it,

But all is silence

Until the clock strikes Eleven

And the coppers trip

Along the cobblestones.

And Victoria never passes

In her widow's veil,

By the black-blue streets

To hear heels clacking

In the gutter,

Where Jack London played

A beggar for the Rags—

But if he had written a woman!

Censors, Tailors

Would have torn away truth,

Leaving dresses

Sheared to nothing.

In Whitechapel's holes,

Forever open,

Lie children and dreams

And hopes and curves

Unattained

And nothing remains

But a man and a man alone

Before anyone even knew

Her name.